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There’s no way I’m leaving before I know Von’s life is back on track. Whatever track he wants—farmer, artist, recluse—whatever path he takes, I’m going to help him.
“I thought I was helping the world see his talent,” I explain and hate myself even more. Von has fame and fortune but actively tried to retreat from it, and I single-handedly made his worst moment a global sensation.
Von’s fame existed in the sports world and a few European gossip sites. But my betrayal has made his face recognizable from a meme by millions of people.
I curse myself for thinking that selling the sculpture was a good idea. If I’d created a tattoo design for him to wear and he sold it to another tattoo artist, it would kill me. And if everyone on the internet speculated the original meaning and my love for him, I wouldn’t leave my apartment. But I’d have Cole, Shane, and Madyson.
Von has Hans an old crotchety farmhand, Lars who can’t get in touch with him, and a mother who sounds happy with my mistakes if the gossip sites aren’t lying.
I’m surprised Von spoke to me.
“Hans, you have to help me.”
He snorts and shakes his head.
“Not for me. For Von,” I beg.
Chapter thirty-nine
Von
“You hired a new farmhand?” I shade my eyes to see a lone figure driving a mower along the edge of the wheat field to make it easier to harvest. “Can we trust him?”
I shouldn’t question Hans. We need the help and weeding out the opportunists is difficult.
“I didn’t run a background check, but he’s not a fan offotbolland he won’t be selling any stories. That I can guarantee.”
“I guess I’ll meet him later.” As much as I don’t want anyone else on the farm, Hans and I can’t harvest the wheat alone. The farm might survive on goat cheese and wool since my grandparents left a trust to cover the cost of running the land, but the extra income goes to charities.
Hans makes a noncommittal sound from the back of his throat like he’s hiding something from me. “When did this guy start?”
“A couple of days ago.” Hans turns and walks away as fast as his aged legs can carry him.
The mystery of the new farmhand is the type of thing that can occupy my mind, so I don’t obsess over the fact that Alec left four days ago.
I regretted not hearing Alec out as soon as he left. Part of me wishes he stayed, but the other part knows that if Alec loved me, he’d take responsibility and try. I can’t take solace in being right. It’s lonely and crushing.
Without the farm, I wouldn’t get up in the morning. But the animals need to be fed and they have no regard for my broken heart.
I imagine what would’ve happened if Alec wanted to be with me. His declaration of love and throwing himself at my feet for mercy. Which I would’ve granted after the proper amount of groveling and time. Neither of those things is clear in my mind or provide a satisfactory new beginning. But since it’s all in my head, they’re irrelevant.
But my mind still reinvents the past where Alec would tell me he’d been a fool to let me go and can’t imagine his life without me.
I dream of everything he would say to win me back. But even the fantasy feels hollow. No words out of his mouth can penetrate the pain in my heart. I’ve designed elaborate scenarios in my head of lavish gifts and huge proclamations. My heart soars with love and we consummate our very emotional reunion. But even the most serendipitous dreams are holograms compared to the past with Alec and the present ache.
My mantra is that I’m better off without him since he can’t commit to a short-term separation. If we were in a relationship, we’d face harder things than this.
Hans told me that Alec’s leaving made headlines on some of the gossip sites. We were photographed together on our date night in Brooklyn, and those pictures are also plastered on social media with every super sleuth offering an opinion on whether he is the man in theEvighetstatue. They judge his suit and make insinuations about his manhood. Blatantly toxic views on display for the world to consume and comment on.
I use Hans’s phone to watch the video of Alec at the airport. He charms and teases the photographers, saying he isn’t a man to kiss and tell and only grins when asked if he’d kissed me.
Alec revels in his few minutes of fame. No grimaces or stiff body language, the camera loves him and he loves the camera back. It hurts. It should validate my decision, but it hurts.
So instead of letting Alec take over my mind, I make up stories guessing the identity of the new farmhand. I imagine the corrupt things the man did as reasons why he’s hiding on a remote farm.Maybe I’ll write a crime drama when I can’t sleep at night. The thought brings a smile to my face.
Two days later, and I still haven’t met our new farmhand.
“I’m beginning to think either the new farmhand is avoiding me or you’ve hired an undocumented migrant and you want me to have plausible deniability,” I say casually as we feed the goats.